Leveler Poetry Journal
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and

 

there are sunflowers

I used to talk to with grandma

and wished to grow up into;

 

there are beaches

covered in empty shells –

and gawky scratches in the sand between disintegrating mussels;

 

there are hands

colder than liquid nitrogen –

and spreading a liquid fragrance that takes the shape of brain grooves;

 

there are winter blooming trees

holding onto promises of parted hands

and sheltering forgotten bullets;

 

there are songs

I only listened to while chopping onions

and munching on certain memories;

 

and when gazing through train wheels –

 

dry winds disrobe hundreds of magnolias of their pinkish buds –

their unadorned shapes

and a weak silage of the perfume camellias wear before a storm

melt into prayers escaping from the church across the sea

as winter deepens.




Luisa-Evelina Stifii